


Magnifique

by Missy



Category: Addams Family (TV 1964)
Genre: Addams-Appropriate References, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, Oral Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Speaking French, Woman on Top, adoration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-12 14:23:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19133854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: “Tish, you are no mere bat.  You are my dragon, with blood red wings and black talons, scourging the countryside of my body. Kiss me with your fire!”





	Magnifique

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Addams Family, The (tv), Gomez/Morticia, body worship

“Darling?”

Morticia’s face is buried in the fold of Gomez’ corpse-white neck, her teeth digging slightly inward – enough to cause him exquisite pain and ecstasy in equal measures as she rocked in his grip. “Yes dear?”

“The door. Did you turn the lock?”

Morticia lowers herself over his prone form, sending up lovely clouds of dust from the ancient blankets. Tish was as light as a wraith still, her dark hair heavy with damp as she leans over and he can look deeply into the swamplike beauty of her eyes. “Both bascule locks and the dead bolt. Lurch is watching the children, and Grandmama has taken Fester and Thing to the theater. We’re completely alone for the night!” 

He smiles. The tips of his fingers wriggled, beloved worms, down her alabaster cleavage. “Clever and beautiful. The big guy downstairs was looking out for me when he sent me you.”

She laughs softly and kisses along Gomez’ jawline. It’s easy, this familiarity – the shape and lines of his face, the warm, moth-softness of his closed eyelids. The tickle of his mustache brushing against her nipple. The feeling of his manhood rising and pressed in the weeping bower of her…my goodness she’d been reading too many exceedingly rare, exceedingly French murder ballads!

Morticia kisses the top of Gomez’ head and continues her rocking, ceremonial, a high priestess – shamaness to his shaman. Gomez – muttering French, his lips and fingers sliding along whatever part of her he may reach from this position - They have so many years of practice at this dance – fourteen, now, fourteen amazing and incredible years - and like the tango, its precise steps have never deserted them.

Gomez is as sturdy as he was when she met him – when he was Ophelia’s, and they had fallen in love without meaning to. He still has that gleam in his eyes – the promise of mischief and joy that draws her, delighting her with his sad moods and cheering her with his fearlessness. 

“That soft belly, those horsewoman’s thighs. My Tish!” 

“Yes?” she asks inanely as the feelings r acing through her begins to erase her ability to track the conversation.

“Your body, my dear, is still the greatest work of art this side of the Venus De Milo,” he says, his fingers dancing along the curves of her hips now, knowing the dip of her flesh.

That makes her pause, mid-stroke, and tilt her head. “Even though I have arms?” she wonders.

“Oh, your arms are a benefit! For on your arms are the softest elbows,” he says, and kisses them. “And your long, ravening talons. The claws that shred my sensibilities and make my blood race!”

Morticia moves in rhythm with his words, a smile curving her lips. “Would you prefer I be a _petite chauve-souris_?” She asks.

“A bat?” he grins. “Tish, you are no mere bat. You are my dragon, with blood red wings and black talons, scourging the countryside of my body. Kiss me with your fire!”

Morticia braces herself against his bare chest, her talons biting into said flesh . She is ripe and hot, much like a maiden being crisped to death in the fire of a dragon. She remembers her ancestors – burned at the stake, all the knowledge of the old magic living on without their lifeblood to continue it. Did they ever know such love? Such ecstasy as she feels when she looks into her love’s eyes? She burns and burns as his intense eyes, his strong hands, his lovely cock, hold her high as the bat she’d mentioned just moments before.

But the fire that burns her has not burned him. Gomez rolls her to her back, and holds within her as she goes corpse-stiff with le petite morte. When the world comes back to her in flashes of black and falling ashes, Gomez is there, and he’s kissing her face; whole and solid, and pulsing like a brain in a specimen jar.

When he’s over, he pulls out and away, and she rolls over, peering at him through the veil of her hair. His mouth takes in the variances of her – the curve of buttocks, the points of her shoulders, the silk of her hair, and the long, long lengths of tensile nerves that blanket the back of her legs. In a mad, rash series of kisses, he continues muttering praise, worship. Teeth and tongue and lips, sliding along curves and minding the lines of her. Morticia lies still, gasping, until she wrestles him to his back and then straddles his chest.

Gomez is as smooth as a cadaver and twice as handsome. His chest flexes when she runs her nails over his chest, down his belly, and then teases his long thighs. Her husband’s skin smells sweetly of expensive Spanish cologne, and his heart beats in the stem of his cock, which she pulls down her throat with a flex of her muscles, a cobra swallowing its prey.

He curses and groans, the sound of her name and of joy bouncing off the walls. His hips snap and move hypnotized by the touch of her, sent her head spinning along, dizzy and detached like one of Wednesday’s beloved dolls. She wants to deliver him exquisite misery and exquisite pain – she does both, with her tongue, squeezing fingertips, and sharp nails. His mouth opens, and the tickle of his mustache Is upon the soft, vulnerable skin of her vulva. Then there’s simply the heat of his mouth, and mumbled French phrases of worship half heard beneath the weight of soft flesh.

There is something clanging in the back of her mind, telling her to rush with the wind, to bring him with her this time. The flood of him, bitter over her tongue, made Morticia sigh as she sups of his essence.

She lies along the shorter length of him, her chin reaching his toes. His hand ghosts once more along her spine. It takes some doing – on weak, rubbery knees – before they manage to return to the dusty, stiff, rocky comfort of their bed.

Gomez takes both of his hands in hers and kisses them. _“Magnifique,”_ he whispers reverently, and plunges them into the darkness.


End file.
